


We Could Be In Skegness

by alana_lerryn



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-29
Updated: 2013-04-29
Packaged: 2017-12-09 22:02:20
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/778465
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alana_lerryn/pseuds/alana_lerryn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bodie and Doyle think a holiday might be nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	We Could Be In Skegness

     “We could be in Skegness,” Bodie said.

     “We could be in the Bahamas,” Doyle corrected him  He did not take his eyes off the window on the other side of the street.  “You don’t have very high expectations, my son.”

     “I’ve been to the Bahamas.”

     “Oh.”

     “Never been to Skegness, though.”

     Doyle sighed.  He looked through the sights of the sniper rifle once more, adjusted them by a millimetre and wiggled his shoulders as he attempted to relax.

     “You’re not happy about this, are you?” Bodie asked.

     Doyle turned to face him, wincing as he saw his partner reach for another slice of Battenberg cake with his left hand while holding a mug of tea in his right.

     “You’ll put on weight,” he said admonishingly.  “Cowley won’t love you if I have to haul you over the assault course by the scruff of your neck. Where’s the Swiss rolls?”

     “They didn’t have any,” Bodie said thickly through a mouthful of sponge.  And then,  “I’ll do it, you know.  Won’t bother me.”  He shrugged.  “Won’t think any the less of you.”

     Doyle knew that he wouldn’t.  They had been partners long enough for the trust to be inviolable.  He also knew that while he did not fully understand his own motives - this was something that he had to do.  Not Bodie.  Maybe, he thought morosely, he had something to prove.

     “Thanks, mate,” he said, “but it’s down to me this time.”

     “Okay.”  And Bodie accepted his judgment without another word and bit into his Battenberg with what appeared to be some force.

     Doyle turned back to the window.  The sniper’s rifle on its stand was sinister-grey and menacing.  Doyle told himself he was being ridiculous.  It was a gun.  A piece of cold metal.  That was all.

     Without turning round, he knew Bodie was watching him and suddenly the tension between them made the hair at the back of his neck stand up.

     “It doesn’t seem right,” he said.  The words forced themselves out of his mouth and immediately he wished he had closed his teeth over them and let them remain unsaid.

     “Lots of things in this world aren’t right,” Bodie said.  “But we have to deal with them.  No one said life was fair.”

     “Philosopher Bodie?” Doyle sneered.  “Shall I call you Einstein?”

     “He wasn’t a philosopher.  He was a theoretical physicist.”

     Doyle could not prevent his bark of laughter.  Bodie did that to him - came out with the most unexpectedly disconcerting remarks.  He hooked his thumbs into the back pockets of his jeans and scuffed his way between the gun and the bed.  Three paces one way, three paces the other.

     Bodie glanced at his watch. “We’ve got four minutes,” he said.

     Doyle looked at the bed.  Bodie had the case for the sniper rifle open.  He could disassemble the weapon and pack it in fifteen seconds.  They were both wearing gloves, had touched nothing with their bare hands, and the room could not be traced back to them.  The bullet was loaded in the gun.  There would be no time for more than one and they would take the casing away with them.  They were ready.

     Doyle was not ready.  Not really.  In a fleeting moment of panic he wondered if he should turn the job over to Bodie and he raised his hands and saw that his fingers were trembling.  Not very much.  Just a bit.

     Two large hands covered his, enclosing them in warmth and strength.  Comforting hands.

     “You don’t have to do this,” Bodie said insistently.  “You don’t.  I know why you’re spooked.  I don’t blame you …”

     “You’re not spooked.”

     “I’ve done worse than this.  Much worse.  It’s just that it’s …”

     Doyle turned to look out of the window.  “Yeah,” he said bitterly. “That’s the problem, isn’t it?”

     “Shh.” A gentle finger touched his mouth and Doyle kissed it absentmindedly as Bodie’s arm slipped around his waist. 

     “I keep telling myself,” Doyle said, “it should be me. I’m better with a rifle …”

     “So you say.”

     “… and it should be me.”

     “Your hands are shaking.”

     “Bodie …”

     “Yes?”

     “Shut up.”

     But his partner’s prosaic - and damning - assessment, while it might have irritated others, did help to steady him and he clenched his jaw until it ached and forced himself into a calm he was far from feeling.

     “Maybe we should think about retiring,” he said.  “You think we’re getting too old for this game?  If a bullet doesn’t get us, the stress probably will.”

     “My ma said I’d never make old bones,” Bodie said gloomily.  “I don’t mind going out in a blaze of glory …”

     “Well, I bloody do!  Want you old and grey and sleeping in bed next to me.”

     “We could buy a flower shop in Tunbridge Wells.” 

     “Sell second hand cars …”

     “Two minutes.” Bodie said.

     With a snarl, Doyle tore himself away from his partner’s arms and strode the three paces to the rifle.  He took a deep breath, positioned himself, and stared through the scope into the office on the other side of the road.  A man went past the window.  Then a woman.  Then a grey-haired man who limped a little and smacked papers against his palm.  Doyle’s finger tightened on the trigger and then relaxed fractionally.

     “It’s okay. You’ll do it.”

     Bodie stood slightly behind him and to one side.  Doyle felt his partner’s hand settle lightly in the small of his back, grounding him, telling him that he was not alone.  It was a comfort.

     He took a deep breath, dropped his shoulders to steady himself and looked through the scope of the gun again.

     Two girls stood talking in front of the window.  One of them laughed.  The other looked out, straight toward Doyle and he had to fight the urge to pull back, sure that she had seen him.

     “Come on, come on …” he muttered.

     “One minute.”

     Doyle kept his eye on the window where their target would appear.

     The two girls were shooed away by a blonde woman and then two more men walked in front of the window, heading to the left.  Another man followed them.  Then the window was empty and all Doyle could see was a desk and a filing cabinet.

     “Thirty seconds.”

     Doyle felt  himself physically settle down; bone and muscle and sinew understanding their jobs and ready to act.  His concentration became total, his hands as steady as the hands of a surgeon and his vision sharpened until nothing existed except for what was at the other end of his telescopic sight.

     The man with grey hair limped into view walking from left to right.  Doyle’s trigger finger relaxed fractionally and then tightened again.

     Target.  Target in the middle of the window.  Easy shot.  Breathe out.  Squeeze the trigger.

     He saw the target’s head explode at the same moment as he heard the glass in the window crash inward.  By that time he was turning away, grabbing the gun and then Bodie was stripping it with rapid efficiency.  Five seconds. Ten seconds.  Fifteen seconds and they were ready to go.  They left the room and made for the stairs, climbing upward.  They had practised this, knew how long it would take to the second, and then they were out on the roof and running across to the next building, down the exterior fire escape to the Capri.  Ten seconds to stow the gun in the boot and then they strolled along the alley, bringing their breathing under control.

     Now that it was over, Doyle expected to start shaking again, but he was still focused, still cool.  It was hard to imagine they would get away with it.  But he knew they would.

     “Why the hell isn’t there bullet proof glass at that window?”

     “You got me.  Complacency?”

     “Maybe.”

     “I can’t believe it was that easy, in the end,” Doyle said softly.

     Bodie grunted.  “That,” he said, “is the penalty for always being too sodding punctual.  And being a traitor, of course,” he added.

     They turned right and now they could see CI5 headquarters and agents running across the road toward the building they had just vacated.

     “What’s going on?” Bodie called out.

     “Shooting,” an agent called.  “You seen anything?”

     “Like what?  Anyone hurt. Is Cowley okay?”

     The agent stopped.  He was new, his face red and his voice shaking as he ran toward them.

     “Yeah.  Betty’s dead!  Could have been Cowley - he was just a few feet away!”

     “Betty?” Doyle said.  “Betty?  Bloody hell!  Yeah - must’ve been meant for Cowley.”

     The agent ran past them toward the end of the road.

     “Cowley’s gonna be fit to be tied!” Bodie said glumly.  “She was efficient.” 

     “An efficient traitor,” Doyle said.

     “Yeah.” Bodie said, “Come on, we’d better go and find the old man.  And I was going to ask for a weekend off for us.”

     “Yeah?  Somewhere nice?”

     “Skegness.”

    

 

 


End file.
